


Broken Wings

by ANG_the_nerd



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), miscellaneous - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Rumbelle Christmas in July
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 12:34:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7574206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANG_the_nerd/pseuds/ANG_the_nerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rockstar!Nosty and ghostwriter!Belle. Rating is T for now, but smut is on the horizon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Wings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MintIceTea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintIceTea/gifts).



> This is my RCIJ gift for Minticetea, I really love this verse and will update every Minty Monday.

Shouts and applause rang in Nosty’s ears effervescing into a pleasant buzz of extra adrenaline in the back of his skull, turning his saunter offstage into a near skip. He was still knackered mind, one hundred and twelve minutes of head banging and shrieking into a microphone was fucking physical, but so was his reaction to the crowds. There wasn’t a chemical or herbal high that could compare, it was just like magic. Every fucking time.

The absence of dry ice and remnants of the show’s pyrotechnics made the backstage area an oasis of fresh air and calm, not that Nosty minded any of the chaos or smoke or even the heat from the stage lights. Sweat was still rolling off his bare chest and he blotted at it with the vest he’d shed at some point during the closing number. He spared a brief moment to flick the v’s at his band mates, a silent and fond profanity, before heading off to his dressing room. His manager, Ella Weinstein, had no doubt organized a backstage party that would put the great fucking Gatsby to shame, but he’d managed to steer clear of Ella’s bacchanalia and all the shite it included for the last twenty two months and counting.

The dressing room was decidedly posh, kitted out in various shades of white with chrome accents. Of course it was all leather upholstered so as to be easily wiped down if one were to succumb to the temptation of sullying it. It would take a sharp instrument or a great deal of determination to do any lasting damage to the tufted ottomans or the creamy settees, and in his younger days he wouldn’t have put it past himself to ransack or generally fuck the place up for the thrill of it. Not that they would have let him within a hundred yards of the place when he was just starting out. Truth be told Nosty had become indifferent to the trendy, highly stylized places he was ushered into or out of before and after performances. Tonight his only concern was the cobalt teapot and accompanying array of Jaffa cakes that had been his one addendum to the tour rider.

Maybe he was growing soft in his old age, thirty in April fuck you very much, but making outrageous demands for the hell of it didn’t hold the same appeal as it did when he was a lad of one and twenty. At the time he rather enjoyed the power to demand a full Christmas lunch complete with plum pudding after every concert, but after nearly a decade of knowing that there was another meal coming there was no need to make every day a fucking holiday. And there was the wee fact that the very thought of roast goose started turning his stomach a mere ten days into that venture, too much of a good thing and all that.

Maybe he hadn’t developed what Ursula called a sense of professionalism or detachment, but a hot cuppa and biscuits were a reasonable enough request. His throat was felt like raw meat, not that a sore throat was enough to dampen the rush of a performance. Nothing you could smoke, or snort, or inject could compare to holding an audience of thousands in the fucking palm of your hand. He would know too. Two years ago Nosty wouldn’t have considered ending a concert without coming backstage to a mountain of coke and maybe a bird or two to help him get his rocks off. It was best not to dwell on that line of thought.

Nosty pulled a clean t-shirt over his head before pouring himself some tea in a souvenir KOKO beaker. He briefly dunked a biscuit in the steaming beverage letting the routine ground him. The tea was too hot to properly swill, but the sip or two he cautiously slurped down felt a real treat to his vocal chords. Four brief raps on the door preceded its opening, Nosty helped himself to another biscuit. He had been expecting the intrusion.

Ursula Tristan poked her head in, “Oh good, you’re decent.” Not that it had ever made a fucking difference. With a shrimp cocktail in one hand and a strange girl at her elbow Ursula swanned in, being one half of Sea Devil records she was within her rights to do so. “Don’t pull that face at me, Adam Nost. You agreed to this.”

She wasn’t wrong, when things were looking bleak in the initial aftermath Harakiri he had given his consent to Ursula’s proposal. Now that the album had grossed eight million copies she was positive they could clear at least as many book sales. Why Ursula felt the need to stick her tentacles into so many pies was beyond him. She was addressing the bird now. “Belle, this is Adam Nost. You’ll be working very closely with him. If he gives you a hard time, let me know. I’ll leave you two to get acquainted, I’ve got to make sure Ella hasn’t reduced any of the venue’s staff to tears.” She shot Nosty a pointed look. “Be sure to play nice.”

Nosty gulped down some more tea, making a show of not acknowledging the girl. In his periphery he could see her nervously shifting from foot to foot. She had on ridiculous heels. He allowed another twenty seconds of silence to pass before changing his tact. Being sure to make eye contact he ever so slowly stuck out his tongue, placing his half melted cookie on it. He let it linger a moment outside his mouth before lasciviously sucking it in. “So, you’re the ghostwriter? It’s a pleasure, I’m sure.”

To the bird’s credit she didn’t flinch at the borderline obscene gesture or the mockery of seduction in his voice. “Hello, Mr Nost. My name is Belle French. I will be assisting you with your autobiography.” She spoke with an Aussie accent. “My involvement in the project can be as much or as little as you prefer. If you want to take on the writing yourself I will serve as an editor. If you’d rather tell me your life’s story I could conduct a series of interviews with you, or you could digitally record notes for me to transcribe.”

She looked at him steadily as she spoke and Nosty wondered what he must look like in her eyes. Growing up on the streets there was a certain expression of disgust he’d grown used to seeing on any posh lass that happened to clap her eyes on him. The bird looked slightly wary if anything, and he supposed he’d given her reason for that. Not reason enough though, she was still laboring under the delusion that he would cooperate. Nosty made a show of licking the orange and chocolate coating off a third Jaffa cake before cramming it in his mouth.

“If you’re dead set on writing my life story why bother taking the piss with me? Call it a regular fucking biography and leave me out of it. You can find all the pertinent details on my Wikipedia page.” He paused to make an exaggerated hand gesture, “You can embroider the rest. A posh hen like you? I’m sure you’re familiar enough with fairytales.” He was sure that final barb hit its mark, cream colored skin was going crimson and her eyes had turned into blue flames. He could almost see her perfect auburn curls standing on their ends. It was a shame to alienate such a beauty so quickly, but it was best that the little princess learn not to come too near a bridge troll- even if she had been ushered in to meet him as he was sipping tea in a fancy fucking room with a gold star on the door.

0000

Staying on at Mirror Publishing© had been a favor to her boss, Sidney Glass. Her subsequent promotion from editor to writer spoke more of Sidney’s desperation than her own ambition. By and large the writers kept on retainer were grossly incompetent. August Wayne Booth had a propensity for sensationalizing, his resentment for accrediting his work to the firm’s celebrity clientele often coloring his work. This, combined with a certain unwillingness to write with anything other than his “characteristically idiosyncratic” antique typewriter sealed his reputation as an insufferable jackass.

If anything Isaac Heller was worse, for a man paid to write the memoirs of others everything Isaac turned out tended to read as his own personal biography. Apart from projecting himself into all his works, the man was incapable of maintaining an accurate timeline. Worst of all Isaac was not above convoluting plain facts into unrecognizable fiction-all in the name of “bold storytelling” of course. Thankfully Sidney had the good sense to fire the hack when a draft of his biography of Princess Emma painted the poor girl’s stalker as an actual romantic partner, for all intents and purposes killing off her actual fiance and father of her child.

His disgrace led to Belle’s promotion. August remained on staff because his turn of phrase could mostly compensate for his less than ideal quirks, once either Belle or Sidney put in some long hours of fact checking and revisions. Belle was very good at her job, but every day she spent telling the stories of others was another day her own manuscripts of original fiction were left unattended. She had resigned herself to a lifetime of copyediting to fund her dreams of becoming a novelist, she never planned on becoming a ghostwriter. The truth of it was though that the company could not survive without competent personnel, and Belle tried to convince herself that no door would be closed to her novels in the publishing world if she chose to call in one of her many favors to Sidney. She just needed time to perfect them, to make sure they were good enough. Until then there were three manuscripts tucked away on her hard drive, waiting for her to do the brave thing and take that step.

A step that seemed an unfathomable leap away from where she was currently standing. Adam Nost wasn’t a nefarious or even infamous name outside of his own musical genre. The few incidents that landed his name in the tabloids were relatively tame in comparison to other, better known musicians. A paparazzi with a busted lip, misdemeanor marijuana possession. It was almost boring really, and in recent years there hadn’t even reports of the minor indiscretions had dried up. It was the controversy over the album that brought the critical glare of mainstream limelight.

Harakiri, an album solely dedicated to death and suicide. The scandal grabbed hold of the media’s attention by its throat and refused to let go. Belle was positive that she never would have heard the name Adam Nost had it not been for the international outrage. Churches and parents’ groups worldwide alternately calling for boycotts of the offending album or conversely buying copies of it expressly to burn. Psychiatrists and experts expounding on the unhealthy messages preying on the disaffected youth. The public was a fickle beastie though, all it took was a glowing review from a well known pundit to turn the curse on Harakiri into a blessing. What was once called a “grotesque profanity against” life was labeled as “provoking and clever”. To be sure there were still churches and PTA’s maintaining their bans, but Adam Nost was up for a Brit Award-completely unheard of for a nu metal music act.

Ursula had warned her about him, both over the phone and in person. He’d hated the idea of publishing a “tell all” from the start, but had given in when it looked like Harakiri was turning out to be career suicide. Belle knew it was an inevitability, but she was still avoiding listening to Adam Nost’s four albums. David Bowie was about as punk as her tastes ran. Her brief foray into researching nu metal satisfied any personal curiosity she harbored for the genre. Heavy bass and angry shouting, intentionally abrasive. Not a far cry from the man’s personality honestly.

Belle would have dearly loved to pour his bloody tea right in his lap and to clout him over the head with the pot once she finished, but she willed herself to smile a small tight smile instead. “We’re going to write an autobiography, you and I, that or your record company will go to court for non-fulfillment of the contract you signed. You are understandably tired after your concert, and so am I after my long flight. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr Nost, unless you’d prefer to see me in court.” Belle considered it a victory that the star hanging on the dressing room door managed to not fall’s off from the force of her slam.

**Author's Note:**

> Next Chapter: We learn how Nosty was discovered, one version is true one is false. Belle and Nosty will also be taking a literal journey to Nosty's past.


End file.
